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Ch. 3: Five for the Five Villages
(Return to Arheled) ' CHAPTER THREE ' ' Five for the Five Villages ' ' ' Bell drove home with her dad in silence. She was thinking about that odd boy Forest from the library. He had completely ignored her after she went and made friends, but maybe that was because he was all wrapped up in what he was Googling. Or maybe she’d been too friendly. Boys were shy like that sometimes if you got too nice, and would think you had a crush on them and run off. Some boys. Others wanted to be crushed on. But that had been really weird afterwards, when she’d gone after Forest to say bye to him and seen him and that nice man from St. Joseph’s—Ronnie was his name, wasn’t it?—staring at each other like they’d seen each other’s ghosts. She had stopped dead in the doorway, and the things they were saying had frozen her to the spot, so that both of them were gone before she even thought of saying Hi. That Arheled word again—only they seemed to use it as the name of a person—and the Road—that’s right, Ronnie knew about the rhyme. She supposed she should think of him as Mr. ''Ronnie, but he looked a little too young for that. “Dad, do you call people in their twenties ‘Mr.’?” Hunter Light glanced over at her, glad she was talking again. She’d been unusually quiet. “If you’re under 12, I suppose you could.” he said. “Usually you don’t bother with the ''Mr. unless he’s about twenty years older than you…..or he’s married…we’re a little informal with it these days, although when I was in my teens, friends of my parents even if they were in their twenties or thirties I called Mr, Mrs. If they were my friends, say that I met at the beach, it was first-names.” Burrville, where they lived, was only five miles south of Winsted, but as Pinewoods Rd was still being repaired Mr. Light avoided the highway (which only had a Burrville exit at Pinewood, unless you went south out of your way) and took Old Rt. 8, which locals called either Still River Turnpike or Winsted Rd. It ran parallel to the divided highway and perhaps a quarter mile west of it, nearly level, and sandwiched between the abrupt high wall of some mountain or other on the right and an open tangled marsh on the left. The leaves were down and red patches of winterberry gleamed among the bronze and russet brown of some bush too stubborn to give up its’ leaves. The broad curves of the motionless river that wound through the swamp, called Still from its’ sluggish current, were visible now and then amid the marsh for the first mile, but then they came to the sporadic factories in the flats where the swamps narrowed, and the river vanished. It was grey scenery, tangled and ever-changing, brown, red and grey, and Bell loved it. “I wish we could take a canoe down Still River.” she said. “That’s a good idea!” her father said. “Except we don’t have a canoe, and I don’t know how much renting one would cost.” “So buy one.” she retorted. “Do you have any idea how much they cost, honeybuttons?!” her dad exclaimed. “You—“ “You must think I’m made of money!” Bell said gleefully at the same time as her father said it. They looked at each other and laughed. They drove past the deserted Elmbrook store, a sad and lonely sight amid the old fields, except for the curious colors of the two front doors. The left one was lime green-yellow while the other was more a sea-lime-green. They matched, somehow. Bell wished her dad would paint their doors those colors. “But Dad doesn’t own our house, he only rents.” she remembered. Past the big quarry with all the strange arms of machinery and heaps of stone rubbish and dust. Past the field with the wreckage of an old sign Dad said was once a drive-in movie theater. They slowed down and stopped at a red light: Burrville. It was a small village; there was a liquor store with a restaurant next to it, a package store farther up, an ambulance/firehouse, and along a forsaken loop of former turnpike and some offshooting streets clustered a small suburb of close-set old houses. At the light was a crossroads, where a winding steep road plunged down from Burr Mountain on the right and continued on the left. The bike path crossed here, empty of people in the cold weather. On the left just after the light was the Fragale & Sons paving company entrance, which was also the entrance to their house. Two detached houses stood back from the paving company’s red barnlike buildings, under spreading old trees, maples and white pines, their backs to the woods, their yard fronted on one side by the drive and on the other by the bike path. It had just been paved a couple years ago; she remembered how excited she had been by the construction, simultaneous with being frightened of the big rough men who did the constructing. She’d stayed well away from that side of the yard during work hours. It was hard to remember what had been there before; she had memories of a gravel road with puddles that her dad and she had walked down sometimes. Now they rode bikes down it. The houses were dull blue. They rented the one set farther back, closer to the bike path. A family of noisy kids lived upstairs in the other house, and some of the paving guys downstairs. Everyone pretty much minded their own business, but Bell had begun to dread the times the little brats were allowed outside, They trashed her dolls or played epic war stories with them, messed up all her favorite nooks and usually got into screaming fights. Dad parked and unlocked the front door. Bell hurried in, lugging books, while her dad got the mail and walked in behind her, leisurely leafing through bills, catalogs and assorted junk mail. He never got any letters. Sometimes Bell got a letter from one of her friends; a few of the people at church shared her dad’s aversion to home computers, and their kids actually wrote letters as a result. The others Facebooked. “Hey Dad, wanna watch a movie?” she called. “Oh no, what this time?” Mr. Light groaned. “I’ve got to get supper ready sometime, you know.” “Relax, would you, it’s just Beauty and the Beast.” Her dad buried his face in his hands and gave a pretend dying gurgle. It was one of her favorites. She started giggling. “Tell you what, you watch it with me and then I’ll watch one of those horrid car-chase shootup movies you like, with you. I’ll even help make supper.” “Only if you make noises every time they use swear words.” her dad twitted. “It’s a deal. What are we having?” Mr. Light opened cupboard after cupboard. “Hey, who’s been in here?” he yelled to her. “''Somebody'' has gone and misplaced everything!” “Hey, they were a disorganized mess!” she protested. “I was just arranging things!” “Yeah, now I can’t find anything. Where did you go with the spiral macaroni?” “Um, I teleported them to the 5th Dimension.” she said with a straight face. “Well, get them out of the 5th Dimension and bring some cheese with you, or you get no supper, young lady!” “They’re right here, you’re as blind as a brickbat, honestly.” she said fondly, opening the bottom cupboard. “I just put all the pasta in the same cupboard, that’s all.” “Fine, fine.” he grumbled, putting a pan of water on the stove to boil. “Go turn on your movie, honeybuttons. I’ll be right in.” He didn’t come in until Belle had finished her first song and Gaston, who she found intensely annoying and likeable at once (Bell did, that is, not Belle), was stalking her via rooftop. The smell of heating water and steam drifted in from the kitchen. He left again with a yelp partway through upon suddenly remembering the boiling water, and didn’t return until, infallibly, the final battle of mob vs. furniture, where he rooted loudly for the mob. Then they had macaroni with cheddar melted over it—one of her favorites—and she resigned herself to yet another Die Hard movie, the only good parts of which were the love scene and the father vs. daughter dynamic. “How can she possibly treat him that way?!” Bell exclaimed indignantly. “Oh, I guess he got annoying once too often.” her dad teased. “Someday I’m going to be like that and then you’ll be the one treating me bad.” “I will not, I swear, Dad,” she said, and shut up because Bruce Willis had got done beating up everyone in sight and was saying something, and for once she wanted to hear what it was. Forest was awake and could not sleep. It was mild for October-end; the air was warm and couldn’t have been under 50°. The moon wasn’t shining. They called it “new moon” when “gone moon” would be a little more accurate, but he liked these nights. For one thing, on them the stars would shine so clearly they seemed like jewels of fire studded in the roof of the round dome of heaven. He got up and stared out the window. The oak, even though it was nearly bare, was in the way. He opened the window. If only he could sneak out and get a really decent look for once. But Mom would hear for sure: the door creaked. Taking a coil of clothesline that had been kicking around the upstairs for the past year, he tied it to his bedpost and got dressed. He stood at the open window, breathing hard, his eyes gleaming so bright they practically glowed in the dark. A sense of adventure, of breaking out of a comfortable shell he lived in most of his life, was upon him. Sliding out he turned, got one leg down, and facing the house began to clamber down. It was difficult. He left the rope there and stood upon the shore of the island, his eyes flaming, his breath hard and quick. Through the bare branches, some still with clusters of leaves, the stars glowed and glittered; it seemed as if the trees were bearing them for fruit. I love it when the leaves are down, ''he thought. Trees bearing stars in place of fruit, trees growing the gems of heaven, trees that bore the Sun and Moon…. He stayed there for a long time, gazing at the lake and the stars gleaming far down inside it; stars of man these were, however, the orange stars of the streetlights that circled the lake and the white stars of the houses of men. At last he decided he’d better go inside, but to his horror his strength failed him before he’d climbed higher than the sliding doors; and all the doors and windows were locked. “You ought to have unlocked the door or at least had your extra key on you before you engaged in such an adventure, Forest.” The boy looked up sharply; odd that he was not frightened, but he had as it were instantly known who it was. He was standing beside the bole of the oak, as if he had just stepped out of it; and his coat was much longer now and fell about his ankles, and Forest no longer felt the cool night air. Which was fortunate as the mildness was only a ghost of itself and the temperature was beginning to drop. “I had to see better.” he said. “It is good for you to see, Forest, but it is not good to let others know that you see. Come out often. But plan when you do.” He half-smiled in the darkness. “What, you approve of kids sneaking out at night?” “It is not the sneaking out, but why it is done, that is important.” “I think I see.” said Forest. “You do, do you? That is rare. Most of you go through life blind, unable to see things properly. You do not see the green secrecy of woods or the blue of the sky; you look at the trees and note the dappling of sundance on their leaves, but you do not ''see them, as they are in their areness.” He seemed no longer to be speaking to Forest; though he stood on the low island, he seemed to be looking out from a great height over the nations of men. “Now and then their eyes widen as an especial beauty burns a hole in their blindness; but as they gaze their eyes fade and they journey on and their thoughts wrap about them again like a cloud. It is as if the children of men walked through the world in a fog of their own making and their own generation, which conceals from their sight the real seeing of Creation: it is a grief to us. But now and then is born one for whom the veil sometimes parts and lifts aside; and then all creation will make league to destroy him, for he can see them as they are.” Forest said nothing. The night and the stranger were one and the same, he was in the darkness but he was not of the darkness, and in the rider of the darkness he had no part. “What happened to the Trees?” Forest queried. “Do you need that answer spoken, Forest?” the stranger said softly. “After they died.” said Forest. “What happened then? Where did the Stars go?” The bright ones all went, he had meant to add. '' Why not the Stars?'' “They didn’t.” said the stranger, looking off over the chill lake. “They watched. For that was their purpose, to watch and be for signs and for seasons, for days and for years; not to intervene, and never to make war.” A cold shadow fell on Forest as he looked into the stars and those words fell on his ears. He seemed to hear distant cries, ancient wailings; the very gleam and twinkle of the eyes amid the heavens seemed like the brightness of the eyes of one shedding tears. “What did they do?” he asked, his voice faint as a whisper. “The Stars rebelled.” the stranger answered, and so cold, and sad, and dark, was his voice as he spoke this, that Forest felt blind, unutterable fear descend upon him. The stars glared down upon him, their light like frozen tears. The terrible words echoed and rebounded through and through his head. He scrambled up the ladder and through his window. It had grown increasingly cold; frost flowers were creeping over the glass. He fell into bed and with his eyes wide open, into a churning nightmare of sleep. It wasn’t till he got home from school the next day that he noticed there was no ladder leaning by his window. “Mom, I’m home.” Brooke called, tossing down her book bag. Nobody answered, but she hadn’t expected anyone to. Mom was at work. If Ben was home he wouldn’t bother answering. Dad might—he was an old sweetie even if he did look like the Wild Man of Winsted with his grungy white hair and beard and his ruddy face; “like Clint Eastwood in retirement,” Mom always sniffed. He sat down in his den half the time, surrounded by beer cans and ‘60s band instruments and a couple practically nude girls smiling from framed photos above the battered horsey furniture—sofa, armchair, small fridge, TV stand—with Goldies (as he called the Golden Oldies) playing on low volume from the big stereo boxes. The rest of the time he was out back, in the woods, piling sticks and cutting up and splitting logs for the winter’s fuel. They had a single potbelly stove in the basement, but it kept the house pretty warm. “Why don’t you switch to oil?” Mom would complain. Brooke could practically hear her saying it now. “You’re gonna throw out your back one of these days. You should at least get a chain saw!” “Then what would keep me busy?” he would demand indignantly, and Mom would throw her hands in the air and stalk off, knowing he’d won the argument. It usually took him half the winter to accumulate the 7 or 8 cords they consumed each year. He hated power tools, cutting logs with an ancient bucksaw (“Cuts like cheese, he does”), an ax, and wedges. But it did keep him busy. Brooke went into the kitchen. Her dad had brought in the mail—Ben’s mail, too, though he used a separate mailbox and usually checked it himself. The reason for this was obvious at a single glance, as several magazines of the Playboy variety met Brooke’s eyes. She suspected her dad had been perusing a few of them. Mom saw nothing wrong with it but the sheer grossness of display rather sickened Brooke. Probably not coincidental was the fact that of a family of cradle Methodists, Brooke and sometimes her dad were the only ones who went to church at all. She opened the fridge and was fixing a sandwich when her cell phone went off in her pocket and she had to drop the mayonnaise-laden spoon on the cold cuts so she could fumble with her phone before it stopped ringing. It was a nice cute strawberry-pink which no guy could possibly mistake for his phone, her only reason for getting that color at all. She managed to answer before the fourth ring (something of a feat) but forgot to check the caller ID and so had no idea of who to expect. “Hey, river-babe.” drawled a deep voice in her ear. “Oh. Hi. Let’s see, you’re—Kevin, right?” she said in a rather jerky voice, her throat suddenly feeling all tight. “Ha ha, as if you didn’t know perfectly well who I was.” “Oh, you never know, a lot of my other guy friends call me a river or a stream or something when they’re trying to be cute.” she said, glad to hear her voice coming out airy and casual. “Come on, baby-brook, you know I’m the only man in your life.” “Don’t be so quick to assume things, boy-o.” she said flirtatiously. It wasn’t much like her, but he needn’t know that. Not just yet at any rate. Not while things were just getting started. “A girl with my looks…” “Aw geez, and I only asked out at first because you looked so lonely.” “So you’re saying my looks had nothing to do with it?” she said slyly. “Well, if you want to put it…” “Are you implying that I’m not pretty?” Oh, she was enjoying this. “What, why, where do you get an idea like that? I never said that…of course I think you’re pretty, but I just…” She couldn’t string him along any farther. It was quite fun enough hearing him get flustered when usually he was Mr. Smooth and she was the one who got all awkward. In any case she was about to die from holding in laughter. She exploded into peals of merriment. “OK, OK, you’ve had your fun.” He sounded a bit put out. Probably not used to getting the tables turned on him. “Chill, dude, you just sounded so funny, I’m only teasing you, relax.” “Hmph.” he pretend-sulked. “Well, maybe I’ll forgive you, if you’ll come hang out this afternoon….maybe at the movies or something…” “Is this a date?” “Why of course, Brookie, what’d you think it was?” “I thought I was being strung for a loop!” she said triumphantly. “After all, what else do you '' hang'' from?” “Ha ha. Should I come to your place?” “I don’t want you knowing where I live, you stalker.” She sobered. “I’ll walk over to the Grange, like we did last time. When you coming?” “How ‘bout 4:00? That should give me time to unwind and beef up my male magnificence…” “You boys are all egomaniacs.” “Yeah, and you girls are hypersensitive.” “Hey, it’s called intuition, don’t knock it.” Ah yes, you women depend on it, do everything by it, and it is almost infallibly wrong. '' Kevin was saying something in her ear, but he hadn’t said that…it had been in her head, but it wasn’t her, it had spoken to her. She said goodbye rather distractedly and rang off (why they still call it “hung up” when it consists of pressing a button she didn’t know; force of old habit most likely) and stood staring into space. She should be delirious. Kevin, the hottest guy in her class, was dating her a second time. He seemed serious. It could be the start of a relationship. Why was she so detached? And where had that silent voice come from? She was dressed up and ready when 4:00 came, and headed out the door still munching her second sandwich. It wasn’t a good idea to be hungry on a date when most guys were often short of pocket change and only got you a small meal. Winchester Center stood on the crown of the height above Winsted, a couple hundred yards from her house; the white clapboarded farmhouse stood on the slope of a great swelling rise of land, the thick strip of woods between her yard and Boyd Street in the rear. She walked up Chapel St to the big intersection at the town green. Winchester Center stands on a great rolling highland of wonderful ancient fields and scattered old houses. Newfield Rd comes up from the south, bordered by towering maples of vast age, and Boyd St climbs up from a mane of forests, bending so as to come in from the north, although Winsted at it’s other end is actually NE of the village. Six roads meet at the double triangle of common land: Chapel and South Streets on the east and Rt. 263 on the west, clambering up steep hills and secret swamps from Goshen. Not far from the green a sixth road forks off this, dirt but paved white with gravel, north-west bound: the last remnant of the Colonial Green Woods Turnpike. Around this intersection is Winchester Center, an open flat windy place amid great grassy fields with hedges of huge ancient maples and old white buildings: the Congregational church, the Grange hall, the old schoolhouse, and houses that seem to have been constructed before memory began, solid as white rocks. The Green was deserted. Brooke made her way along the main road under the row of ancient bare maples, moaning in the cold wind that roared intermittently across the high flatland. She sat on the steps of the Grange hall, rather like a church itself with its’ big grooved columns, and huddled her arms close. She hoped he wouldn’t be long. Minutes passed and stretched away. And still she was waiting. She got up and stomped to warm her feet: open-topped shoes and no socks was really smart for this time of year, she sneered at herself. She was cold. It must have been half an hour already. Slowly she became certain of what she had known from the start. He wasn’t going to come. She gave him till 4:30, just to be fair, and then, half frozen from sitting still, jumped up and down a little and stalked off toward home. He knew where the hall was. If he tried pulling off some stupid excuse, boy was she going to light into him. She tried his number, but it was busy. Ringing off she checked her phone. No missed calls or new messages. She noticed the pile of mail was still untouched: her brother Ben evidently wasn’t home. That was good, because she had a movie from the library she really wanted to watch. Brooke had a secret vice, which her family worried about the way other parents worried about a son reading porn: she liked fairy tales and fantasy films. Turning on the DVD player she was soon happily absorbed in ''Stardust. Or so she told herself; mostly she just wanted to forget Kevin. Her phone gave the odd “ding” that meant she had a new message, and putting the movie on pause with a groan she dialed her voice mail. On the screen Her Dark Majesty remained frozen, forever removing falling-out hair from her head as she thundered along in her carriage. Sure enough it was Kevin, giving some lame excuse about getting a call and something coming up, “…so, anyway, see ya round. Bye.” “Probably from some chick he was using to make me jealous.” she muttered. Pressing 7 she listened with some satisfaction to the artificial female voice say “Message erased. End of new messages.” She turned her phone off savagely. When she had finished the movie she felt a lot better. There’s just something about watching an evil prince’s dead corpse puppet-fighting the hero while ghost princes root in the background and the witch gets blown up by the Star-girl shining too brightly. She rang up Vanessa with a smile: she liked her, for all she was a bit of a cat, and felt she needed some girl talk. The phone rang. And rang. Just as the voice mail was cutting in Brooke heard the '' beep'' of someone answering it, and then what sounded like the undead walking. “''Huhh ahhh ahhh go-oo-od morning.” “Did you just yawn, or is your house invaded?” demanded Brooke. “Huh? Who is this? That was me yawning, it’s not time to get up yet, it’s like six in the morning.” It was Vanessa, all right. She sounded groggy but at least human. “It’s Brooke, you silly it’s like 5 or 6 in the ''evening, you sounded like a freakin’ zombie.” “Uhhhuuuukaaayyy Ahhhhhmm awake.” Vanessa mumbled. “''Get up!” Brooke barked. “Wide awake, Sarge!” Vanessa said fake-cheerily. “Who ''are you, anyway?” “I’m '' Brooke'', that’s B--r--double-O--k-with-an-E.” “Brookie!” Vanessa squealed. “Hey, soul sistah! How you doin’?” “Hey soul sister, How you dissed her….” Brooke sang, sending the other into stitches at the parody. “Sooo, what’s up?” she said lightly when she’d finished laughing. Brooke told her all about Kevin. In vivid detail. Especially dwelling on how many pieces she wanted to cut him into. Vanessa gasped when she heard the callous voice mail. “That’s awful, girl, that is so mean. Hey, Delilah and I are gonna go hit the street and grab a bite and go troll for boys in the paarrk, and you wanna coooommme?” Brooke giggled. “The Three Fatalities walk again! But, isn’t it, like, a little cold out for that?” “Hey, that’s why they made scarves! You gonna be in? I’m driving.” Vanessa at 17 was the only one of the trio who could drive, and she had her own car. “I’ll be gazing mournfully out the window waiting.” Vanessa pulled in about half an hour later. It was now deep night and her headlights filled the lamplit room where Brooke was reading. She left a note on the fridge, not that anyone really cared, except maybe Dad, but she felt better that way. Pulling on her scarf and nice pink gloves she raced out the front door and climbed in the red Chrysler’s passenger door. Delilah strangled her from the back seat and after kissing and hugging each other as if they hadn’t met in years, Vanessa got under way. Radio blaring, Delilah swaying in the back, they rocketed down Boyd St at way too fast a speed. Once or twice Vanessa narrowly missed a corner. “Vannie, are you high or something?” said Brooke. “Nah, but I’m really really hyped, girlfriend! You’ll never guess what!” “What?” Delilah and Brooke both demanded at once. “My little secret, poo-hoo-hoo.” and Vanessa twisted up her face in that cute pout boys found themselves falling over each other to kiss. They parked on Main over toward Glison’s Cinema so they could window-shop and “troll for boys” as Vannie kept putting it. It was absolutely crazy, with all three girls suddenly breaking into gales of laughter for no reason and catching side glances from every boy and man they passed. It must have been around the Health Food Corner store, where Union St crosses Main and becomes Bridge Street, when Brooke saw pedaling toward them a man in a scarf and wool hat and coat who had a long, hollow-cheeked face and absent but intent dark eyes. His bike was battered and dark green with a bent basket on the front. Delilah suddenly said, “Vannie, ask him if he’s your daddy!” “I will not!” the gold-haired beauty giggled, going completely pink. “I’ll pay you five dollars.” said Brooke. “Come on, please!” begged Deli. “Pretty please?” cooed Brooke, curling her face up like a little girl. “With sugar and cherries and ice cream on top?” Delilah added, looking even cuter than Brooke. “I love you lots—but no!” Vanessa managed to say through her laughter. “Come onn!” Deli whined prettily. Brooke brandished a five-dollar bill. Vanessa gave in and they started across Main, where the man in question was already beginning to cross to the other side of Union. He glanced up at them as he passed. Vanessa put on the sweetest puzzled look and said as he approached, “Are you my daddy?” The surprise in his expression made Brooke feel like she was going to die holding in her laughter. “I fail to comprehend your question.” he said, and from the way his folded mouth was twitching he was having similar difficulties. “I love my daddy!” Vanessa blurted, her face tight with mirth. The man was abreast of them now. Brooke caught his eyes and began to giggle. “Then who are you?” she managed to sputter. “I am Old Nuncle Jimmy.” the man said with a grandiose bow, and pedaled on, chuckling. Brooke couldn’t hold it back any longer and broke into hysterical laughter. All three started running down the street, shrieking with merriment. “You owe me five dollars! Pay up! Gimme!” Vanessa shrieked, and Brooke flapped the bill up out of reach and stuck out her tongue, earning herself a wrestling match. She surrendered the bill and they fell on each other’s shoulders, laughing so hard they felt ready to explode. “Pardon me, girls,” said a man coming toward them. They were blocking the entire sidewalk by Gilson’s with their antics. Vanessa yelled at Brooke, “I am not going to ask him if he’s my daddy!” “No, but perhaps he might ask something of you.” the man said. The girls only raced past him, shrieking with merriment. Brooke as she glanced back saw his face, strange and wise with a scruff of stubble. He seemed to be about to say something but then shook his head and walked on, and the smile on his face was both ancient and sad. And it was only then that she noticed he wore a coat of brown leather. “Let’s stop in at the Flip ‘N Grill.” Vanessa said innocently. “The Flippin’ Grill.” Delilah said instantly, and that sent them off again. “Even worse, it’s right next door to the Wings ‘n Things….” Brooke began, but the other girls both shouted with her, “The Wingy Thingy!!!” They walked up past St. Joseph’s and St. James, silent and dim in the lamplit night. Crossing the street in the glare of countless headlights they entered the little restaurant which bore such a hilarious name. It used to be Wendy’s, but that had closed a year ago and this restaurant had just opened. The décor was orange and brown, but Brooke didn’t notice this, because the first thing that happened was the three cutest boys she’d ever seen stood up and started waving to Vanessa. She turned to the others with a gleefully sly face. “You better hope you look nice, girls, cause I got you both a date with one of these hunks of hotness!” Brooke’s mouth was falling open. Delilah’s eyes got wide. “OMG OMG I love you I love you! Did you real-ly? OMG OMG I love you forever!” She was jumping up and down and hugging Vanessa at the same time. Brooke was just in shock. After Vanessa managed to pry Delilah off her, she whispered to Brooke, “I fixed you up with Justin—tall guy, blond—he’s on the football team.” She knew one of Brooke’s deepest longings was to be dated by a football player. Next she knew Brooke was squeezing Vanessa and squealing “OMG I heart you forever and ever I will never stop hugging you!” Even in a transport of joy she managed to remember not to take God’s Name in vain, and so used only the initials. Delilah hadn’t. “But how did you do all this?” “Yeah,” said Delilah, shifting her head, “do you ahh mind telling us?” “Hmm, I don’t know…” said Vanessa, pushing back her golden hair. “You best be joking!” scolded Brooke. “''Duh! '' Of course I am!” giggled Vanessa. “Soo,” Delilah said archly, “what is it?” “Well, I kinda know Nathan from track and I sorta might have mentioned I knew two gorgeous girls just pining away for loneliness and I sorta kinda pushed some buttons, and so here we all are!” There was a distinct nervous pause as the girls began settling down to reality and the realization of three cute boys waiting for them. “So did I tell you about that kid from the island?” Delilah was saying very quickly. Everyone seemed eager to put off the actual going over to meet their dates. “The one named Trees or something?” said Brooke. “Forest, you’re close, yeah he waits at my bus stop and usually he’s the sort of kid you don’t notice exists until he opens his mouth. He says the weirdest things. We were in science class and we had Mr. Gauter, you know the one who never smiles and calls everyone by their last names, ‘Miss Beecher, would you explain the chemical constituents of the sun’s interior’, ‘Mr. Lake, perhaps you can tell the class about the origin and evolution of the solar system?’ So I look over and he’s pointing to that Forest kid and the boy’s got a crazy look in his eyes, like he can’t see the class because he’s staring at something on the other side of town. Then he just said in a sort of quiet, distant voice, ‘That’s not how they started.’ “Mr. Gauter says, ‘Indeed, and perhaps you have an alternate explanation you would like to share with the class.’ Delilah paused. “Yes? And he says?” queried Vanessa. Delilah went on in a can-you-believe-this tone, “The Sun and Moon grew on trees.” “He said that?? Oh my gosh, that is so…” “It was creepy.” said Delilah. “Just the way he said it. Like how they say in movies when some horrible enemy is coming, ‘They are here’, in that awful quiet voice. It threw Mr. Gauter for a loop, I must say. Why, it was…” Brooke didn’t hear the rest of what Delilah was saying. She didn’t hear the restaurant noise around her. A preposterous image of a Tree straddling the earth, swinging twin globes of fire from its’ straining boughs, one large and one small, the Sun and Moon growing on twigs before the Tree flung them into the heavens… “Hey, Deli, don’t you think the boys are gonna wonder what’s keeping us?” Vanessa cut into Delilah’s nervous chatter. All three looked at each other and giggled. The girls got into motion, pink-faced and starry-eyed, as three grinning and rather bashful boys stood up to be introduced. “Now, honey, I know you’re old enough to be out trick-or-treating on your own, but I’d still feel better if one of your friends was going along…” Mrs. Lake chattered on as she finished the last details of Forest’s costume. He’d insisted on a Lord of the Rings costume, finally settling on Legolas. In the grey cloak and Elf-ranger outfit, with a handmade bow and cardboard quiver and real bread knife thrust in his belt, he did look the part. “I have no friends.” It wasn’t bitter, as it would have been from anyone who wasn’t Forest; for him it was a statement of fact. “You know Delilah and Julian, don’t you, from down the street? From your bus stop? I asked their moms to make sure they waited for you.” “Thanks, Mom.” Forest said with a shy smile. Knocking on doors by himself was more terrifying to him than going through a dark spooky wood was to a timid girl. But he hadn’t dared to think of going with the two lovely and scornful girls. He only hoped they weren’t put out by his presence. They were still chattering silly girl talk to each other when he opened the gate and walked up to them, and not wanting to interrupt, it was a couple minutes before they noticed him. “Oh, Forest! Wondered where you’d got to. Neat Ranger outfit.” “It’s Legolas; didn’t you see the bow?” he said. “So what; Aragorn has a bow too.” said Julian. “Aragorn’s cute.” “No way; Orlando Bloom is the hottest.” “Point. Okay, you can tag along ‘cause Mom insists, but don’t hog my candy, don’t get in my way, don’t talk because every time you open your mouth the weirdest things come out—“ “Will you be nice to him for once in your life, Deli?” Julian broke in heatedly. “The poor kid’s scared stiff.” “Well, you are dressed as witches.” said Forest. Both girls looked at each other and burst into laughter. “Oh, that’s a good one.” gasped Julian. “And you said '' what'' comes out of his mouth…?” “All right, I take it back.” giggled Delilah. “That’s awesome. Remind me to use that on Kevin. Did you hear…he was actually dating that pussy Brooke, and Shanessa was like so jealous she called him and they had a fight which ended up in her going off with him, and he just dropped Brooke like a hot potato on their second date…” “Are you serious?? OMG!” And so it went, the two girls in front gabbing away and Forest pacing a few steps behind, amused and disgusted at the same time by the girly conversation, enjoying the way his cloak swung when he walked and how it felt to carry weapons. So they worked their way down the lake road, going north, their candy bags steadily heavier. The air was cold and frost hung in it, deepening as the night sharpened, and although there was no moon the stars gleamed hard and strong overhead—between streetlights, that is. Never had Forest felt so annoyed with the orange monsters. It was as if they were sentinels, guarding man from the stars. They came at last to the empty stretch, where the mountain came down in great broken cliffs right to the road upon their left, while on their right ten feet below (more now, with the annual drawdown) lapped the cold waters of the long lake. Only one house stood along this stretch, the Ugly House, a tall boxlike monstrosity of misplanned masonry and woodwork and modern siding, far too tall and far too square to please any sense of proportion. More than a quarter mile later the homes began again, where the mountain reluctantly drew back. “Looks like we got to the end of the loop, guys.” said Julian. “Unless anyone wants to walk that long dark creepy stretch of road…” “That’s odd.” Forest murmered. “There’s no streetlights.” “Well, naturally, there’s like no houses here!” “Hey, I kinda remember a light by that curve and one by that big dumb house, weren’t there?” “''There’s'' a light.” said Forest. Both girls turned and looked. Uphill, in the dark laurel, the faint glow of windows shone. And all of them were pretty sure no house had been there before. “There’s steps right here.” said Julian. “They look old, too. How could we have missed seeing them?” “Be—“ Forest started, but Julian was going on, “I didn’t think houses could fit here, I mean look how steep the cliff is! They’d never get building approval.” Because this house is only here tonight, Forest had been about to say. His eyes shone and he had a sudden soaring lift of heart. “We should go and trick-or-treat there.” giggled Delilah. “Are you crazy?? I’m scared out of my pants and I’m going to pee and I am '' not'' going up there!” “Well, I’m not going up without you.” “I bet Forest is scared! Forest! I bet you wouldn’t go up and knock on that door! I bet you’re scared!” “I am not scared.” said Forest softly. Without waiting for them he mounted up the ancient steps of stone. They were mossed with forest litchen and overhung by untrimmed yew. An ancient metal pipe handrail guided him, half buried by yew. He only had to climb about ten feet to round a great broken crag of cliff, and atop this, pressed against another sheer rise and hugged by the great oaks and hemlocks that had grown here alone until tonight, was the craziest little stone cottage he had ever seen among even the insane shanties of the lakeside. A low steep roof seemed set at three different angles. Ill-set windows crouched in arches of rough masonry. Rough-laid stone formed the walls. An ancient door of plank hung upon three great barn hinges, and the door was either painted black or looked it, for the hinges stood out pale in the darkness like silver bars across it. The windows were curtained but light behind made the yellow curtains glow like great square eyes, a window each side of the door. Something else shone in the gloom, a knocker wrought like a leering face. Forest lifted the clapper and let it fall. At the sharp hollow clack of the knocker, lights sprang into life, lining the eaves, lining the stairs: small evil faces made of glowing spots of light, eyes and nose and mouth. It took a moment for Forest to realize they were jack-o’-lanterns. He bent to examine one closer and received a shock. They weren’t pumpkins. They were turnips carved hollow, a candle inside each. The door opened. It swung outward, compelling him to step back. Chains swung from the inside. Light flowed out, an odd dim yellowy light from candles lit in holders. A stuffy sort of smell came with it, queer but sweet, like smoke and old dried herbs. A very small but cosy room was visible within, and on the threshold stood a little old woman with a bowl of handbaked candies. “My, you’re the first ones I’ve had all night.” the old woman chattered. She had an agreeably hideous face like some old women have, both comical and reassuring. “Come in, come in, I’m just getting the house warm and I don’t want all my nice heat to get out. Oh, you brought friends! How sweet! Come on up, my dears, I’m nothing to be scared of, I’m sure.” Julian and Delilah, giggling like lunatics, hurried up the stairs and all three squeezed inside. The old woman shut the door. Inside was very tidy for so cramped a space. A fireplace was built into the end wall with a sink beside it. There were a couple of soft cushy chairs drawn up to it. A bed filled the far end. In between was a table and several hard wooden chairs with carved backs. Dried herbs covered every inch of ceiling, hanging in bunches just overhead. Shelves lined the back wall, filled with jars and bottles of every shape and size, their contents anywhere from dark to golden, even green and orange. A hearth stood in the middle, and a fire burned there slowly, sending thin wispy threads of fire up around two logs: red and yellow, and even a green or blue thread now and then. “Now why don’t you sit down for a moment while I get you some hot chocolate.” the woman chunnered away. She bustled about, back and forth, pouring hot water from a darling copper teakettle into three ancient mugs with peculiar patterns in red. “I don’t remember seeing you before.” said Forest, not sitting down. “Who are you?” “Forest! That’s rude!” the girls exclaimed. “No, no, he’s quite right to ask, the fact is I only just moved here. I’m a witch, I suppose; that is, I’m in Wicca and all that, though I prefer more ‘magic practitioner’ or ‘energy counselor.’” “I think we’d better go, ma’am.” said Forest in a completely unruffled voice. “Our folks expect us back pretty soon.” “Spooked you, did I? Oh, it’s such a pity there’s still so much prejudice and hostility out there against us; you’d think we were in the Middle Ages sometimes, the way some of them speak! You two aren’t afraid of me, are you, dears?” The girls shook their heads. “I do not hold communion with witches.” said Forest. “Oh, it’s you that’s the stubborn one, eh?” the old woman said, planting hands on her hips. “You’ve been bred on fairy tales, I suppose, where the witches come under such absurd stereotypes and are invariably evil. Did you think we all go about in steeple hats and long striped stockings, perhaps? Or that we have green faces? Do you see any broomsticks, Forest? Don’t you think you might be wrong on a few other points?” “I did not give you my name.” said Forest. “You have no right to use it.” The old woman peered at him sharply. “I see.” she said tartly. “Well, I do assure you you are completely mistaken about us. We don’t sell our souls to the devil. We don’t go around chanting incantations and waving wands. We soothe the troubled energy paths of the universe. We encourage health and well-being through personal energy therapy. Although some of us use charms or amulets to focus positive healing charges, these are strictly ‘white’; we don’t deal with ‘black’.” “And what do you call black?” Forest said. “Necromancy.” the old woman whispered. “Hexing. Casting a curse. We shun these. Those who do them, we hunt them, we fight them. We are white.” “Then what do you want with us?” “With you?” the old woman said. “Oh heavens. As if I lured you in here on purpose or something, when you’re the one who knocked on my door!” She bent a dark scowl on him. “Which you did, didn’t you?” “I was expecting someone else.” said Forest. “True, true,” the witch said, flapping one hand. “Well, I’ll not keep any more of your time; as you’ve said, it is late and your folks’ll worry. Was the hot chocolate good, dearies?” to Julian and Delilah, who were snoring over empty mugs. They started awake at this and the witch chuckled. “Off you get, my sleepies! Here, take as many as you want; I’m not likely to get any more callers this late at night! Well, Forest—oh, I forgot, you don’t want me to use your name, so prudent of you and all, won’t you take something before you go?” “No.” said Forest. “That’s very rude of you.” said the old woman sternly. “Your mother obviously neglected to teach you manners.” “I know better than to take gifts from a witch.” “No fear in those eyes.” the old woman muttered. “Who’s been getting at you, I wonder, boy with the keen sight? I can’t do anything with you. Fortunately you have no idea that you are strong.” She seized his hand. Her voice bit like ice. “Give this message to your friend: the Door of Night opens.” “Let go of me and let me go, in the name of Arheled.” said Forest. The witch dropped his hand and sprang back as if he’d gone red hot. Suddenly she seemed old beyond reckoning, stretched beyond her time, a thing of skin and iron and bitter magic, cursed by the very powers she tried to manipulate. He shoved Julian and Delilah out the door and slammed it behind him. The turnip ghosts on the stairs gave a last malevolent leer before winking out, and Forest grabbed the girls before they could fall as the stair vanished under him. He knew without looking backward that he would see neither light nor house. “Well done, Forest.” said the man in brown as they slipped and stumbled onto the street. The girls, still groggy, looked up at him without being alarmed. “I—I did it right? We’re safe?” “No one is safe, Forest.” said the strange man. “Not with the Door open. But yes, for tonight we are safe—assuming you don’t knock at any more strange doors.” “I was expecting you.” said Forest. “You should never ‘expect’ me.” the mysterious man replied. “I am not at your beck and call. The calling is mine to do. You were in more peril than you have ever been, Forest. She was here for you.” “She’s not a ‘white’ witch?” “No witches are.” said the man in brown leather. “You are stronger than you know. Had you even let her use your name, she would have had you. But you baffled her.” “That name.” said Forest. “Arheled. “It’s from a dream. Ronnie had it, too. Why did she fear it?” “It only worked because of chance circumstances.” the man in brown said sternly. “Next time, use the Holy Name; they fear it more. You can only fight witches with religion. That’s one of the reasons it’s there.” “What was she trying to do to me?” The stranger’s face grew grim. “It is too terrible to think of.” he said. “You would no longer have been Forest. You would sneer at the Tree, for you would no longer be able to See. You would tear up your paintings. The only paintings you would like would be those of unclad women. Your sneakings out at night would no longer be for reasons I approve. Your mother would be relieved, though a little puzzled. You would, in short, be just like everyone else. You would be completely normal.” “Oh my God.” whispered Forest. “Who is she?” “She is a witch,” he answered, “and a very old one. Long ago she was known as the Witch of Winchester; but that was when she was young and puny of power. Now she is old, and she is one of my great enemies.” Forest looked down at the yawning girls. “Will they be all right?” “They were already in her power when they drank her brew.” the man in brown said somberly. “I would wash it from them if they were not; but it is too late now, I cannot wash their hearts, they are hers. No use would it be to remove the witch’s candy from their bags: let them become what they desire. Hurry home. Samhain Night is not a canny time to be abroad, even though the Great Hallows do their utmost to cleanse it. Go in peace. Oh, and Forest—hold out your bag.” Forest did. The man in brown poured into it a whole box of candy pumpkins. “You forgot to say Trick or Treat!” he smiled. Lara Midwinter flipped the last batch of paper-thin hamburgers into the yellow trays and set the spatula down with relief as she slid the trays into the warmers. There the guys on assembly line at the salad bar—as she had sarcastically termed the rows of steel pots set into a table and filled with makings—were methodically taking the paddies out and slapping them onto buns already lined with mustard, ketchup, lettuce, pickle and shredded onion (she called it “rice”, to the vast amusement of the others), and sending them up front neatly wrapped in colored papers with stupid McDonald’s characters all over them. They finished the last two or three and then came to a stop: the endless line of customers had eased at last and they were good to go for a while. There were a few jokes and some flirtatious remarks between Heather and James down at the bun toaster, mostly bad word plays on toasting your buns. Lara had heard it all before. Right now she just wanted the day to be over. An employee of McDonald’s—a McMurderer as she had once called it to get a laugh out of James—was supposed to be constantly busy. While James and Heather were taking advantage of the lull to chatter with Moreen on the other side of assembly, Lara took out the broom and began sweeping. Heather had gone and dropped two pieces of yellow American cheese again, and Lara picked them up to be scarfed when out of view of the cameras (“The five-minute rule” she called it—food on the floor was edible until it had been there five minutes). They wasted enough food to feed ten homeless men every day, it seemed, and although Lara was able to pinch stuff like wrapped cheeseburgers thrown out for sitting a little too long in the front rack, the waste galled her no end. Comes of being homeschooled on a tight budget, she supposed. The clock seemed to have gone into some sort of time warp where the minutes never advanced, but at last when Lara was washing dishes she realized the time warp was ending and it was nearly 3:00. Just in time, too, because Brandan was washing dishes next to her and using the situation to hit on her big-time, as Heather would put it. She half-liked him, she supposed, but she bore absolutely no interest in him and his insistence was getting downright annoying. I mean, how do you convey no to a guy who apparently doesn’t comprehend the word, without shouting it down his throat and making an enemy for life? “Sorry, gotta run.” she said happily and hurried off, leaving the egg machine half-washed for him to finish, without any compunction. “But, Lara, we wouldn’t even be on a date, it would just be us going to the movies as friends…” his voice trailed after her dismally. “Oh, for the love of Pete, shut up!” she snapped as she scooped up coat and lunchbox from the break room and fled for the front register to log out. The cold air outside made her gasp with delight: it was '' winter'' again, winter at last! Halloween was three days ago, and the last leaves hung brown and shrivelled on oaks and beech, while most of the trees behind the Winsted McDonald’s already wore the clean grey bareness of winter. Down in the little vale where Mad River ran, a few big willows still hugged tattered cloaks of yellow-green about them, and honeysuckle bushes made a shadow of pale green that only looked dismal. The river slowed to a sedate crawl as it poured into the Still River bottoms, becoming deep and placid, lined with thorn bushes as it swung around to join the Still. With the leaves down you could look right into the dell. Getting into the family’s other car on her own was still enough of a novelty to savor; she’d gotten her license only that summer and the freedom was sweet. Sometimes just to change the scenery she took different ways home to Riverton; today she cut off North Main—Rt. 8, she supposed she should call it, as it went north from the end of the divided highway by that name, but she’d lived here all her life and to her it was always N. Main—and turned off at the Still River Gorge. A high bridge spanned a cloven ravine some fifty feet deep, where the river rushed over several small drops and chutes; on the left, it’s foundations rising out of the gorge, was the old clock factory. Don’t ask me what it is now, she thought, probably the GTM Mifflin Muffin Co. or something; or maybe just turned into apartments. Beyond this White St. rose steeply up a long hill. She loved how you emerged from suburban white houses suddenly onto an ancient back road, running to the right into a dead end in lovely old farms. She turned left. This was Wallens Hill Rd, and she was probably on Wallens Hill right now, if she came to think of it, with that steep climb. Ronnie was the one who thought about stuff like what hills were called and where roads went. She drove slowly down the old back-country road, along level countryland with some fields and some woods that in summer looked green and deep but were now naked and plain grey for winter. She passed a rebuilt new barn, rebuilt in the old Colonial style, along with a new house also built on antique lines, on a hillside near a very old orchard. It was a cheering sight. Recently built big stone walls of lovely close-laid masonry surrounded it. The hill descended and then levelled out again. There were houses here, too, incredibly ancient houses, for this had been one of the two oldest settling places in Winsted. Ronnie had told her the other one was on the other side of town, by the head of the long Highland Lake. Funny how she lived in these parts all her life and never knew any of this, and him in about five months finds out things she never dreamed of. Old North Road crossed Wallens Hill Rd at an X. Several houses of such age they looked pre-historic, or pre-Colonial at any rate, clustered around the roadmeet. A little farther Wallens Hill Rd crossed Rt. 20, the main road into Riverton, continuing on over odd green-grey hills to the ragged gorge known as Robertville Falls; but that was not her route. She turned right onto Rt. 20. Here was the fork in the road with that pretty, lonely little house on a mossy bank above it, and next to it a really ancient bent rock maple, one of the weirdest trees she’d ever seen. She had always fancied some little old lady lived there (with a cat, of course), living out her days in sweet melancholy. Probably not at all the case. A long descent lay ahead. Pines fenced in the road and a valley lay below on the left. Remote and wild woodland for half a mile; it always felt like she was leaving the civilised lands behind. Halfway down was the “Europe House” that looked like it was transplanted from some Swiss hilltop into the woods of Riverton. As always she slowed down just to look at it. Huge jutting eaves with carved supporting beams, carved corbels, carved woodwork balcony in a heart pattern, stone stuccoed walls, and stone walls with aqueduct-style arches running beside the drive. Rounding the curve she drove on, down the long hill dark with pines. Riverton lay at the bottom of a deep vale between heights; the far mountain rose before her like a wall. Then she reached the bottom and entered Riverton. For some reason she seemed to see it suddenly with new eyes, as if it was her first time, and the realization left her amazed. A perfect pocket village lay before her around a double crossroad, deliberately preserved and almost artificially kept up. But it was completely empty. No cars in the parking lots, not even by the General Store. She looked at the old Protestant church (now a glass museum) with its’ stone walls and rook-like tower; at the antique store building that still was a store, at the red-and-white preserved Hitchcock Furniture Works (now Riverton Self Storage) with its’ charming primitive-factory appearance, at the real old New England inn at the second crossroads—very beautiful, and very New England, and yet there was that air of artificiality, like a stage set or a museum re-creation with people hired to walk around in period clothes and do period things. She wondered that she had never noticed it before, and then there recurred to her Chesterton’s strange warning that it was perilous to see a thing the thousandth time, for one runs a frightful risk of seeing it as it truly is. Over the bridges she drove. Two rivers meet at Riverton; Sandy Brook comes down from Colebrook and the north-west, flowing into the western branch of the broad Farmington River. This river travels a deep flat valley like a rift between walls of pine-clad mountains, running straight north and south, until Pleasant Valley some three miles south. Rt. 20 crosses Sandy Brook and meets the road from Robertsville at a T, and turning right at the General Store one passes the Hitchcock factory and crosses Farmington on a wide bridge. Immediately after the bridge is another T, where the eastern river road comes up from the south and continues on north, and here stands the large square Inn. The Midwinters lived up behind the Inn, among a delightful cluster of colorful and very old houses in at least six different styles. The huge long white mansion, boxlike, clapboarded and square-windowed. The little red gabled house squished between a more normal white house and a bizarre agglomeration of fused outbuildings that made another house. The tall Revolutionary-War-era white box of a house with perfect laurel walks and gravel paths. Then a neat square blue townhouse right behind and above the Inn, backed and shaded by hemlocks and oaks. She turned up the narrow lane that curved left behind and then above the Inn, with the lovely slate-capped stone wall on the passenger side she was always afraid would scrape her mirrors. The road curved up between the more normal white house and the square neat Colonial house, and the blue townhouse. This had a narrow windswept lawn with a close, mossed, windswept look to it. Then the road hooked around to the right and charged up the feet of the mountain, and at the curve a white farmhouse and two joined barns formed a horseshoe. The Midwinters went horseback riding there. Far up on the prow of a high slope above the neat laurel-walk house, was a charming little ranch-style house; and that was where she lived. It was hell in the winter, what with the steep road and the steep drive. Sometimes the Midwinters parked in town when they heard a storm was coming and walked home. She got out of the car and stood for a moment, glancing up at the sky. Through the trees of the hill she’d descended on the way in, the sun glanced for a moment, chill and wintery. Clouds made the heaven a sad gray; there would be no stars tonight. '' “Empty heavens filling till the night is spangled day…” '' It seemed to be the wind, the cold wind soughing in the hemlock forest rising behind her house; but winds do not speak, and winds do not have words. Had she perhaps spoken them, she wondered, for they seemed to fit some deep chord within her, sad, haunted, like the shard of melody of a half-forgotten song. But the wind died, and the cold air fell soundless around her, and the song did not come again. Lara turned and headed inside. “Lara! Lara’s home!” bawled Dominic, running up to hug her. She laughed and planted a kiss on his head as he pounded off again. The aroma of venison filled the air: Dad had rescued a roadkill deer the other day and their freezer was stuffed with various deer cuts. By the mustardy tang Mom was making deer steak tonight, and Lara’s stomach rumbled. “Hey, Lara.” said Mr. Midwinter absently. He was bent over a cabinet door he was trying to rehinge, and as Lara moved around him he got up and scuttled over to where he’d been doing something else he forgot about, leaving the cabinet door wide open for Lye to trip over, which of course she did and nearly dropped the baby. Oblivious of this Mr. Midwinter forgot about whatever other task he was doing and scurried back to finish the cabinet door. He had a balding head, short-shaved hair, glasses and an odd hesitant manner, more conservative than timid. “Hey, Mr. Mouse.” smiled Lara. Her jaw dropped as she realized what she’d said. Lye put her free hand over her mouth and both girls howled with laughter. “He does act kind of like a mouse in a cage.” Lilac observed tartly. “Bddddtttttt—bdddddddttttttt—“ “Back and forth, back and forth…” Lara added. Both sisters dissolved into laughter. “How was your day?” said Lye, bouncing Summer. “What do you think.” Lara said wearily. “That Brandan makes me so mad I want to just sock him one.” “Why don’t you? He might actually get the message.” “Oh, be serious. I’d lose my job at the very least.” “Yeah, but you’d go out with a bang.” “What are we having for dinner?” Lara changed the subject. “I hope it’s not hamburgers. If I have to smell or taste another hamburger I’m going to explode. Or throw up. Or remain undecided.” “Like Dad when he votes, you mean? You’re in luck. Mom wants to use up some venison.” “Only for about the fourth straight day in a row.” “Don’t tell me, if you see another venison steak…” “Not quite that bad.” Lara laughed. She actually did feel better. Joking with her blunt sister always helped. “Lye, do you ever, um, think about stars?” Lara said all of a sudden. “Stars?” Lilac said, managing to look both puzzled and wary at once. “Oh no. Don’t tell me. You had another of your poetry flashes about stars.” “Not really, I just sort of heard this fragment of a song on the wind, and it’s ringing in my head. I just wondered if it happens to you.” “Nope.” said Lilac dismissively. “Nip. Noop. Nada. You’re the only one nutty about stars. I’m so glad we’re not in the same room anymore.” “You’re mean. I bet you miss our crazy story sessions and those pillow fights.” Lara said sweetly. “Pillow fights are for boys.” Lye sniffed. The two sisters stared at each other for a moment and burst into giggles again. It wasn’t until she was in her room for the night that the queer words on the wind returned to Lara. She closed the old door into the upstairs hall and turned off the light. The clouds had broken and the night sky gleamed through the bare oak branches, the stars bright and fierce as they seldom were in summer. Lara leaned her elbows on the worn sill; it creaked but she didn’t notice. The ‘50s-era radiator clattered and wheezed as the hot water heater cut in. Lara edged away from the warmth. Something in her, something about her reached out to the cold, embracing it, absorbing it; even though her human flesh soon began to remind her that it needed warmth even if she didn’t. Shivering would set in in a moment, she supposed, but for now she was cold, she was the cold, the delicious cold like melted snow that crept all through her, and in that beautiful moment between growing cold and shivering, she exulted in it, a woman of ice, a snowmaiden. She wrapped herself up before shivers could begin and warmed her fingers and hands, then looked out of the window again and up to the stars. Cold white eyes, cold white fire, swords of distant frozen light. They seemed to call, they seemed to speak to her, to Lara Midwinter, and she heard them in her heart like voices of glass, like the sound paper-thin ice on a lake makes when you skim a rock across it, that shivering tingling liquid crinkle… '' '' '' Empty heavens filling till the night is spangled day '' '' Stars so close and banded as to drive the dark away, '' '' Stars swirl-warring as the Road calls all them home….'' It died, as it had before. As if a song already started had receded before it ended, or as if she had eavesdropped on a snatch of song caught out of the ancient heavens, sung by one sad wanderer from that day as he passed amid a world that forgot the stars exist, left behind from another time. She longed to hear it, to hear the full song, but like the true meaning of her name she knew it would come to her only in its’ own time and not hers. Heaviness came over her eyes. She dressed for bed in a sleepy daze, pulled the quilt close about her and passed into slumber.